Charles is served his tea, followed by a plate of macarons. They are round and perfectly symmetrical. The outsides are smooth and slightly glossy and they curve down into rings of delicate bubbles, which Charles explains are called feet. The shells are a deep purply red color, radiant and evenly blended. They are all the more beautiful in contrast to the pale pink cream that was expertly piped in the center, holding the shells in place. Charles eyes them fondly. Admiringly. Longingly. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have Charles look at me that way.
I blush at the errant thought and focus on the food. I am overwhelmed by the beauty of these delicacies. I want to save them forever, take a million pictures, maybe come back here every single day. If I’d gotten the LUV Academy scholarship I’d applied for, and a part-time job to go with it, this could have been my life.
“Try one,” Charles lifts his plate of macarons and extends them toward me.
So I let myself pretend that this is my life, even if just for an afternoon.
I carefully pick up the top macaron and carry it over to my plate. I don’t dare put it down. I don’t know if a delicate macaron would be harmed by touching the buttery goodness of a chocolate croissant.
I bring it to my lips and close my eyes. I want to block out all my senses except for taste and smell so as to maximize this experience. The scent of raspberries perfumes the air directly in front of me. Gently, I let my teeth break the macaron’s shell. It crackles, softly giving way to a chewy, fluffy interior. I bite down. The raspberry cream within floods into my mouth and dances on my tongue. The delicate flavors swim through my soul.
“Oh, wow!” I sigh, leaning back in my chair.
Charles groans.
My eyes snap open and he’s staring at me, his own eyes heated... and glued to my lips. I’m reminded of the last time we kissed. Of the way he set my body on fire with just his lips. And suddenly, I wish I was alone with Charles. I wish—
“What are you thinking about?” Charles asks, taking a sip of his tea, pinky finger extended.
The heated look I thought I saw is no longer there. Like I imagined it. Just like I imagined I could get a job and turn my life around. Like I imagined being a student here. Like I imagined being a princess.
“Roonie?” Charles presses.
My cheeks flush, and I blurt out the first thing I can think of. “Macaroons.”
“You mean macarons?” he asks.
The fragrant and fruity taste of a raspberry macaron is still on my tongue, and I nod. “Those, too.”
Chapter 19
Charles and I leave Nigel’s and head back toward the dorms. The sun kisses my face, and Charles’s presence warms my heart, but my mind is cold and distant.
Being at the cafe was an escape—another reality—but we’re back to the real world now. A world that takes us past the jewelry store and reminds me yet again that I’m a complete failure.
I grimace and madly search for a distraction. Usually, I escape into songs about fairy tales, but this time, I have a much better idea. I can write the guys a competition song!
I’d felt so inspired, listening to Charles and Nigel speak French. I could practically feel a song taking shape, and I know I can recreate that. I have to.
“What are you thinking about?” Charles asks as we make our way across the quad.
“The competition song,” I tell him honestly. “Maybe I can work on it today.”
“That’s a great idea,” Charles says, taking my hand in his.
My pulse spikes. Suddenly, all my brain’s able to process is the fact that I’m holding hands with Charles. My princely Beast, straight out of a fairy tale.
The faces we pass are all a blur, and I don’t even realize where we are until Charles swipes his key card and leads me into the dorm building. Which is when my pulse spikes for an entirely different reason: Marcus the RA!
My free hand flies to my collarbone, and my fingers graze the four solid, comforting pieces of my fractured heart. They give me confidence. The fact that there’s no sign of the dorm guardian gives me hope. Maybe things are finally starting to look up.
“I have an idea,” Charles says when we enter the apartment.
“What is it?” I ask as he eagerly pulls me across the living room. For a split second, I think he might actually be taking me toward his bedroom—but I start freaking out when I realize we’re headed for the next room. The home library with the boardroom table, where he and I picked out their audition song before.
“How about you play the guitar and—” That’s as far as Charles gets before I yank him back.
I’d completely forgotten I’d broken Tate’s guitar. My Prince Charming hadn’t mentioned it, and neither had the other guys. I guess a part of me had hoped that if I put the whole thing out of my mind, that particular problem would cease to exist.
“What is it?” Charles frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I quickly tell him. “Let’s just go work on the song in the living room!”
“We can do that.” Charles reaches for the guitar again. “Let me just—”
“No!” I cry. “Please, don’t.”
“Why?” His confused expression is replaced by a concerned one.
“I—” Why is it that today of all days—after the guys just paid Anderson over two grand for the broken jewelry box—that they’re going to find out I also broke Tate’s guitar?
“Roonie?” Charles presses.
I feel like I’m going to be sick as I try to force the words out. “I d-dropped it.”
“Dropped what?” Charles frowns.
“Tate’s guitar.”
Charles looks at the instrument in question, and his brows furrow. “Looks fine to me.”
“It’s not fine.” I grab the instrument and flip it over to reveal the huge crack. “I didn’t mean to do it. I swear it was an accident. And now, look at it. It’s completely ruined.”
“Roonie, it’s no big deal.” Charles takes the guitar from me and sets it back down on the shelf.
“It’s a huge deal,” I wail.
“No, it’s not.” He pulls me into his arms.
“Tate’s going to hate me,” I cry against the Beast’s solid, muscular chest. “He’ll make me leave. And I’ll never see you again, and...”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Charles says, letting me go. He grabs the nearest chair, sits down, and pulls me onto his lap. “No one’s going to make you leave, and Tate’s not going to hate you.”
“Yes, he is. I broke his guitar. And you guys just bailed me out because of the jewelry box. Plus, you’re letting me stay here, and you bought me all those clothes and all the food and— ”
“It’s fine,” Charles interrupts, pressing me into his hard chest and enveloping me in his huge arms.
I suddenly become aware of each hard, bulging muscle, and a wave of heat spreads through me. It’s followed closely by a wave of guilt, because how can I possibly be thinking such a thing after all the ways I’ve screwed up today?
“How about I call the music store and have them deliver another guitar?” Charles asks.